The Kinsella Sisters (Lissamore Series, Book 1)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Home is where the heart is...
Free spirit Rio Kinsella finds herself settled in the picture-postcard village of Lissamore on Ireland's West Coast. It's where she took her first step, had her first kiss and conceived her beloved son Finn. But now Finn's spread his wings and flown the nest, what's to keep her here? An old flame and a new prospect may provide the answer... City girl Dervla is poles apart from her bohemian sister. A businesswoman with a quick mind, a hard heart and a nose for a good deal, she has no time for love. But is there anywhere she can really call home? And will the arrival of a new client throw her glossy magazine life-style into disarray? Torn apart by a long-standing feud, the Kinsella sisters are reunited upon the death of their wayward father. But on clearing the family home, they discover a secret so intriguing it could change their lives forever... Welcome to blissfully unpredictable Lissamore. It's guaranteed you'll never want to leave...
attached to diving that you don’t find in many other sports. A kind of Zen thing.’ ‘You looked very Zen on the yoga pavilion. What were you contemplating?’ ‘I was thinking about how hard it will be to let go of this place.’ ‘You haven’t used it much.’ ‘No. I just never seemed to have the time. It’s ironic that we’re splitting just as Broadband’s finally available.’ ‘You’re hooked up?’ ‘Only just. Because we’re in a dip, the signal couldn’t reach us here. If it had happened sooner, I could
at yet another person who’d rolled up, glass in hand, to tell her how sorry he was for her trouble and what a character Frank had been. She’d had enough. Muttering an excuse, she grabbed a bottle from the hall table, and hotfooted it upstairs. Plonking herself down on the bottom step of the staircase that led to the attic, she swilled wine into her glass and wondered if she was becoming an alcoholic. It was hereditary, she’d read somewhere. How ironic that the only thing she might have inherited
scheme was similar–the floorboards limewashed, the tongue-and-groove walls sponged in duck-egg blue. Río had set up her easel and a trestle work table in a corner next to the door that led onto the small deck, and screened it off with white-painted lattice-work. The kitchen was separated from the main living space by a blue-tiled counter, and glass-fronted cupboards housed Río’s collection of blue and white china. In the sitting area two sofas covered in loose white linen covers sat on either
anonymity. As she did so, the front door opened and a dog came bounding out. It was lean and sleek, with an alert look and the air of a thoroughbred. Spotting Dervla on the other side of the road, the dog made for her instantly, wagging its tail, clearly keen to make a new friend. It was a female, about two years old, with the kind of coat Cruella de Vil would have killed for. It was a Dalmatian, and the man who followed it through the door onto the footpath was the spitting image of Pierce
in her polyester suit. It looked all right from the waist up, she supposed, but the bum had gone shiny from all that sitting in the driver’s seat. She ventured first into the cosmetics section, and was immediately set upon by an army of girls wielding perfume sprays. No, no, no! There was nothing worse for a fare than being stuck in a hackney with a driver who smelled like an air freshener. Río ducked and dived like a resistance fighter, and finally drew up at a counter where there was a